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The End of the Whole Mess
I want to tell you about the end of war, the degeneration of mankind, and the death of the Messiah - an epic story, deserving thousandsof pages and a whole shelf of volumes, but you (if there are any 'you' later on to read this) will have to settle for the freeze-driedversion. The direct injection works very fast. I figure I've got somewhere between forty-five minutes and two hours, depending on myblood-type. I think it's A, which should give me a little more time, but I'll be goddamned if I can remember for sure. If it turns out tobe 0, you could be in for a lot of blank pages, my hypothetical friend.In any event, I think maybe I'd better assume the worst and go as fast as I can.I'm using the electric typewriter - Bobby's word-processor is faster, but the genny's cycle is too irregular to be trusted, even with theline suppressor. I've only got one shot at this; I can't risk getting most of the way home and then seeing the whole thing go to dataheaven because of an oHm drop, or a surge too great for the suppressor to cope with.My name is Howard Fornoy. I was a freelance writer. My brother, Robert Fornoy, was the Messiah. I killed him by shooting him upwith his own discovery four hours ago.
 He
called it The Calmative. A Very Serious Mistake might have been a better name, but what'sdone is done and can't be undone, as the Irish have been saying for centuries ... which
 proves
what assholes they are.Shit, I can't afford these digressions.After Bobby died I covered him with a quilt and sat at the cabin's single living-room. window for some three hours, looking out at thewoods. Used to be you could see the orange glow of the hi-intensity arc-sodiums from North Conway, but no more. Now there's justthe White Mountains, looking like dark triangles of crepe paper cut out by a child, and the pointless stars*I turned on the radio, dialed through four bands, found one crazy guy, and shut it off. I sat there thinking of ways to tell this story - Mymind kept sliding away toward all those miles of dark pinewoods, all that nothing Finally I realized I needed to get myself off thedime and shoot myself up: Shit. I never could work without a deadline.And I've sure-to-God got one now.Our parents had no reason to expect anything other than what they got: bright children. Dad was a history major who had become afun professor at Hofstra when he was thirty. Ten years later he was one of six viceadministrators of the National Archives inWashington, DC, and in line for the top spot. He was a helluva good guy, too - had every record Chuck Berry ever cut and played apretty mean blues guitar himself My dad filed by day and rocked by night.Mom graduated magna
cum laude
from Drew. Got a Phi Beta Kappa key she sometimes wore on this funky fedora she had. Shebecame a successful CPA in DC, met my dad, married him, and took in her shingle when she became pregnant with yours truly. Icame along in 1980. By '84 she was doing taxes for some of my dad's associates - she called this her 'little hobby.' By the time Bobbywas born in 1987, she was handling taxes, investment portfolios, and estate-planning for a dozen powerful men. I could name them,but who gives a wad? They're either dead or driveling idiots by now.I think she probably made more out of 'her little hobby' each year than my dad made at his job, but that never mattered - they werehappy with what they were to themselves and to each other. I saw them squabble lots of times, but I never saw them fight. When I wasgrowing up, the only difference I saw between my mom and my playmates' moms was that their moms used to read or iron or sew ortalk on the phone while the soaps played on the tube, and my mom used to run a pocket calculator and write down numbers on biggreen sheets of paper while the soaps played on the tube.I was no disappointment to a couple of people with Mensa Gold Cards in their wallets. I maintained A's and B's through my schoolcareer (the idea that either I or my brother might go to a private school was never even discussed so far as I know). I also wrote wellearly, with no effort at all. I sold my first magazine piece when I was twenty - it was on how the Continental Army wintered at ValleyForge. I sold it to an airline magazine for four hundred fifty dollars. My dad, whom I loved deeply, asked me if he could buy thatcheck from me. He gave me his own personal check and had the check from the airline magazine framed and hung it over his desk. Aromantic genius, if you will. A romantic
blues-playing
genius, if you will. Take it from me, a kid could do a lot worse. Of course heand my mother both died raving and pissing in their pants late last year, like almost everyone else on this big round world of ours, butI never stopped loving either of them.I was the sort of child they had every reason to expect - a good boy with a bright mind, a talented boy whose talent grew to earlymaturity in an atmosphere of love and confidence, a faithful boy who loved and respected his mom and dad.
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Bobby was different.
 Nobody,
not even Mensa types like our folks,
ever 
expects a kid like Bobby. Not
ever.
I potty-trained two full years earlier than Bob, and that was the only thing in which I ever beat him. But I never felt jealous of him;that would have been like a fairly good American Legion League pitcher feeling jealous of Nolan Ryan or Roger Clemens. After acertain point the comparisons that cause feelings of jealousy simply cease to exist. I've been there, and I can tell you: after a certainpoint you just stand back and shield your eyes from the flashburns.Bobby read at two and began writing short essays ('Our Dog', 'A Trip to Boston with Mother') at three. His printing was the straggling,struggling galvanic constructions of a six-year-old, and that was startling enough in itself, but there was more: if transcribed so that hisstill-developing motor control no longer became an evaluative factor, you would have thought you were reading the work of a bright,if extremely naive, fifth-grader, He progressed from simple sentences to compound sentences to complex ones with dizzying rapidity,grasping clauses, sub-clauses, and modifying clauses with an intuitiveness that was eerie. Sometimes his syntax was garbled and hismodifiers misplaced, but he had such flaws - which plague most writers all their lives - pretty well under control by the age of five.He developed headaches. My parents were afraid he had some sort of physical problem - a brain-tumor, perhaps - and took him to adoctor who examined him carefully, listened to him even more carefully, and then told my parents there was nothing wrong withBobby except stress: he was in a state of extreme frustration because his writing-hand would not work as wen as his brain.'You got a kid trying to pass a mental kidney stone,' the doctor said. 'I could prescribe something for his headaches, but I think thedrug he really needs is a typewriter.' So Mom and Dad gave Bobby an IBM. A year later they gave him a Commodore 64 withWordStar for Christmas and Bobby's headaches stopped. Before going on to other matters, I only want to add that he believed for thenext three years or so that it was Santa Claus who had left that word-cruncher under our tree. Now that I think of it, that was anotherplace where I beat Bobby: I Santa-trained earlier, too.There's so much I could tell you about those early days, and I suppose I'll have to tell you a little, but I'll have to go fast and make itbrief. The deadline. Ah, the deadline. I once read a very funny piece called 'The Essential
Gone with the Wind' 
that went somethinglike this:
"A war?" laughed Scarlett. "Oh, fiddle-de-dee!" Boom! Ashley went to war! Atlanta burned! Rhett walked in and then walked out!"'Fiddle-de-dee," said Scarlett through her tears, "I will think about it tomorrow, for tomorrow is another day."
I laughed heartily over that when I read it; now that I'm faced with doing something similar, it doesn't seem quite so funny. But heregoes:
'A child with an IQ immeasurable by any existing test?' smiled India Fornoy
to
her devoted husband, Richard. 'Fiddle-de-dee! We'llrovide an atmosphere where his intellect - not 
to
mention that of his not-exactly-stupid older brother -can grow. And we'll raise themas the normal all-American boys they by gosh are!' 
 
 Boom! The Fornoy boys grew up! Howard went to the University of Virginia, graduated 
cum laude,
and settled down to a freelancewriting career! Made a comfortable living! Stepped out with a lot of women and went to bed with quite a few of them! Managed toavoid social diseases both sexual and pharmacological! Bought a Mitsubishi stereo system! Wrote home at least once a week!Published two novels that did pretty well! 'Fiddle-de-dee,' said Howard, 'this is the life for me!' 
 And so it was, at least until the day Bobby showed up unexpectedly (in the best mad-scientist tradition) with his two glass boxes, abees' nest in one and a wasps' nest in the other, Bobby wearing a Mumford Phys Ed tee-shirt inside-out, on the verge of destroyinghuman intellect and just as happy as a clam at high tide.Guys like my brother Bobby come along only once every two or three generations, I think - guys like Leonardo da Vinci, Newton,Einstein, maybe Edison. They all seem to have one thing in common: they are like huge compasses which swing aimlessly for a longtime, searching for some true north and then homing on it with fearful force. Before that happens such guys are apt to get up to someweird shit, and Bobby was no exception.When he was eight and I was fifteen, he came to me and said he had invented an airplane. By then I knew Bobby too well to just say'Bullshit' and kick him out of my room. I went out to the garage where there was this weird plywood contraption sitting on hisAmerican Flyer red wagon. It looked a little like a fighter plane, but the wings were raked forward instead of back. He had mountedthe saddle from his rocking horse on the middle of it with bolts. There was a lever on the side. There was no motor. He said it was aglider. He wanted me to push him down Carrigan's Hill, which was the steepest grade in DC's Grant Park - there was a cement path
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down the middle of it for old folks. That, Bobby said, would be his runway.'Bobby,' I said, 'you got this puppy's wings on backward.''No,' he said. 'This is the way they're supposed to be. I saw something on Wild Kingdom about hawks. They dive down on their preyand then reverse their wings coming up. They're double-jointed, see? You get better lift this way.''Then why isn't the Air Force building them this way?' I asked, blissfully unaware that both the American and the Russian air forceshad plans for such forward-wing fighter planes on their drawing boards.Bobby just shrugged. He didn't know and didn't care.We went over to Carrigan's Hill and he climbed into the rocking-horse saddle and gripped the lever. 'Push me
hard,' 
he said. His eyeswere dancing with that crazed light I knew so well - Christ, his eyes used to light up that way in his cradle sometimes. But I swear toGod I never would have pushed him down the cement path as hard as I did if I thought the thing would actually work.But I
didn't 
know, and I gave him one hell of a shove. He went freewheeling down the hill, whooping like a cowboy just off atraildrive and headed into town for a few cold beers. An old lady had to jump out of his way, and he just missed an old geezer leaningover a walker. Halfway down he pulled the handle and I watched, wide-eyed and bullshit with fear and amazement, as his splinteryplywood plane separated from the wagon. At first it only hovered inches above it, and for a second it looked like it was going to settleback. Then there was a gust of wind and Bobby's plane took off like someone had it on an invisible cable. The American Flyer wagonran off the concrete path and into some bushes. All of a sudden Bobby was ten feet in the air, then twenty, then fifty. He went glidingover Grant Park on a steepening upward plane, whooping cheerily.I went running after him, screaming for him to come down, visions of his body tumbling off that stupid rocking-horse saddle andimpaling itself on a tree, or one of the park's many statues, standing out with hideous clarity in my head. I did not just imagine mybrother's funeral; I tell you I
attended 
it.
'BOBBY!' 
I shrieked.
'COME DOWN!' 
 
'WHEEEEEEEe!' 
Bobby screamed back, his voice faint but clearly ecstatic. Startled chess-players, Frisbee-throwers, book-readers,lovers, and joggers stopped whatever they were doing to watch.
'BOBBY THERE'S NO SEATBELT ON THAT FUCKING THING!' 
I screamed. It was the first time I ever used that particular word, sofar as I can remember.
'Iyyyy'll beeee all riyyyyht . . .' He
was screaming at the top of his lungs, but I was appalled to realize I could barely hear him. I wentrunning down Carrigan's Hill, shrieking all the way. I don't have the slightest memory of just what I was yelling, but the next day Icould not speak above a whisper. I do remember passing a young fellow in a neat three-piece suit standing by the statue of EleanorRoosevelt at the foot of the hill. He looked at me and said conversationally, 'Tell you what, my friend, I'm having one
hell
of an' acidflashback.'I remember that odd misshapen shadow gliding across the green floor of the park, rising and rippling as it crossed park benches, litterbaskets, and the upturned faces of the watching people. I remember chasing it. I remember how my mother's face crumpled and howshe started to cry when I told her that Bobby's plane, which had no business flying in the first place, turned upside down in a suddeneddy of wind and Bobby finished his short but brilliant career splattered all over D Street.The way things turned out, it might have been better for everyone if things had actually turned out that way, but they didn't.Instead, Bobby banked back toward Carrigan's Hill, holding nonchalantly onto the tail of his own plane to keep from falling off thedamned thing, and brought it down toward the little pond at the center of Grant Park. He went air-sliding five feet over it, then four ...and then he was skiing his sneakers along the surface of the water, sending back twin white wakes, scaring the usually complacent(and overfed) ducks up in honking indignant flurries before him, laughing his cheerful laugh. He came down on the far side, exactlybetween two park benches that snapped off the wings of his plane. He flew out of the saddle, thumped his head, and started to bawl.That was life with Bobby.Not everything was that spectacular - in fact, I don't think 
anything
was . . . at least until The Calmative. But I told you the storybecause I think, this time at least, the extreme case best illustrates the norm: fife with Bobby was a constant mind-fuck. By the age of nine he was attending quantum physics and advanced algebra classes at Georgetown University. There was the day he blanked out
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